


Patron Saint

by orphan_account



Category: Backstreet Boys
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-10
Updated: 2010-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Littrell and a sheep that strayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patron Saint

You took your vows a long time ago and you don't regret them. You regret that your reasons for taking them were suspect at best, cowardice at worst. It seemed easier to delve into a world where everyone was keenly desperate to place themselves out of the tempting things the world had to offer, like the muscular curve of back to buttock to thigh, or the dark imprint of ink on hard, gleaming shoulders. No, you decided a long time ago that that wasn't for you, and so you draped yourself in black and rededicated yourself to a life of nobility, a life of purpose.

You found it shockingly easy to slip into that role, and find out that it wasn't even a part you were attempting to play but a role that fit you like skin. The joy you feel when you see the difference you have made is both exhilarating and humbling, as close to God as you're going to get while you're here on this earth.

You are now Father Brian Litrell and you like the sound of that, and because of that, your steps are confident now; you know where you're going. Which is why you're here, hoping to absolve someone of sin, to relieve them of the crushing guilt you used to feel.

***

Prison has a smell to it that you don't like. A sweaty, metallic smell, what you imagine rust must smell like. The confession stall in the chapel is a welcome relief.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned." A husky voice, scratchy from a life of excess. Whisky is your guess; you don't know why that thought occurs to you. "It's been, fuck, years since I last confessed." He seems to have realized what he just said. "Sorry."

"It's all right," you say. "Go on."

"Where do I start?" he says, with a trace of bitter humor threading his voice. "I lie a lot. I swear a lot. Saying I did this that time seems kinda pointless since I do it a lot."

"There aren't any hard rules here. You just confess." His voice triggers something in you, a base reaction that starts in the pit of your belly.

"I did some drugs a few days ago. Oh yeah, I suck cock a lot. Like it a whole lot."

"Define 'lot'" You feel slightly uneasy.

"Once a day?" he asks. You can almost see the smirk on his lips.

"Do you ever ask yourself why you do these things when you know they're wrong?"

"Yeah I ask myself, and for some of things I do, I'm not sure they're that wrong."

You find it difficult to breathe. Flickers of memory like the sting of a whip. You can place his voice now.

"Father?"

"Yes?"

The silence on his end speaks volumes. Then--

"I thought your voice sounded familiar," he says quietly. He starts singing a verse of a hymn, hallelujah in a low voice, and something blazes in you and you can't help yourself. For a few syllables, a few notes you join him in singing. The notes that you're able to sing out feel like shrapnel.

You hear his hand smack the screen between you forcefully. "Please. Brian." he says. "Give me something. You just left."

"I loved you then." Your voice is weak, and you barely croak those four words out. You wonder what he looks like now, if he's gotten more tattoos, if he's lost weight, if he still carried a flask, what color his hair is now. You close your eyes and for a moment, you pretend you're in a world with an entirely different set of rules.

Action must be taken though. You'll pay for this later.

"Guard," you say out loud. "Please remove the prisoner."

There's a resigned laugh on the other side. You feel like you're bleeding all over the floor nonetheless. You hear the shuffle of feet, a rebuking tone in the guard's voice that suggested punishment lay in wait.

Sometimes, there are no words. You sit a little while longer, remembering the feel and taste of his skin, the blue of his tattoos, then you decide to get up.

***

Penance is a lifetime of good deeds, you have decided, but even that doesn't seem like enough. Your rosary lies on top of your request for a transfer. You feel hollow, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see a time when you will feel close to divinity again.

THE END


End file.
